


Hey There Little Red Riding Hood

by iscatterthemintimeandspace



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fairy Tale Retellings, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 02:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2451452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iscatterthemintimeandspace/pseuds/iscatterthemintimeandspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hey there Little Red Riding Hood, You sure are lookin' good. You're everything that a Big Bad Wolf could want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey There Little Red Riding Hood

“Don't forget to take your cloak, dear.”

“Yes, Mum.” 

“Or your basket.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Or the pies for Grandmother Took.” 

“Yes, Mum.” 

“And make sure you paint the roses when you go out.” 

“Yes, Mum!”

“Bilbo!” She laughed heartily. “You aren't even listening to me!” 

Belladonna Baggins ruffled her son's hair, sending his honey blond curls in all directions. Bilbo looked sheepishly at her from his place by the window. He had been staring out into the sunny morning, wistfully surveying the garden swaying in the light breeze. 

“I'm sorry, Mum,” he answered, getting up from his seat to gather the things for his trip. He grabbed the goodie basket his mother had packed for his sick grandmother. It was full of good things to eat — pies and cakes, and soup, and Belladonna's special tea. 

“Don't go into the woods, Stay-”

“I know, I know, the woods. Bad things in the woods,” the boy mumbled, gathering up the last of the items she had prepared and tucking them carefully into his basket. 

“Stay on the path, there are-” His mother was fidgeting, nervously adding things to the parcel.

“MUM! I've walked to Gran's a hundred times by myself. I'll be fine!” 

“Of course, dear,” she replied, absent-mindedly fixing Bilbo's hair and then running her hands over his cloak, fingering the embroidery at the scarlet collar. 

He kissed her gently on the cheek, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I'll be fine. I'll be back before you know it.” 

The older woman smiled at her son blandly, handing him the packed basket and walking him to the door. Bilbo took the basket, cradling the handle in the crook of his arm, and stepped out the door into the sunshine. 

There was a nippy bite of autumn in the air as Bilbo set out down Bagshot Row, waving to his mother as she closed the round door of Bag End behind her. 

Pulling the pointed hood of his cloak up over his head, the hobbit gratefully breathed in the chill, loving every second of his favorite season. The leaves had just begun to change, and he admired them as he strolled down the road, basket in hand. 

Grandmother Took lived on the other side of the Shire, a couple hours walk through the woods. Bilbo had made the journey dozens of times since his childhood, using the trip as an excuse to let his unusually active mind wander. Today was no exception. 

When he was but a fauntling, his daydreams had usually consisted of the great battles, daring heroes and beautiful maidens straight out of his fairy books. He would charge into the woods, stick held high as he fought back the massive armies of Mordor single-handed, saving the elf princess from the dark clutches of Sauron. He would arrive at his grandmother's house with twigs in his hair and scraps on his knees, ravenous for Gran's cookies. 

Bilbo chuckled to himself as he walked, remembering how untroubled his walks used to be. He hadn't had a care in the world, save the treats that would be waiting and the story he'd get with bedtime. 

But the woods had grown more dangerous recently, wisps and whispers of a nameless creeping dread, of wolves howling in the deep. He had to keep his wits about him and not let his thoughts get away from him. The hobbit had no desire to end up on someone’s dinner plate. He had debated an alternative road, one that skirted the forest instead of cutting through the middle, but that would take him days instead of hours, and Bilbo had no desire to spend the night anywhere but in his soft feather bed. 

He trotted along, enjoying the view of the changing leaves as he grew closer and closer to the forest, fewer and fewer dwellings lining his way. After waving to the last of his neighbors, Bilbo stepped into the wood, his stomach doing flip-flops despite his normal logical outlook . 

_‘Stop it,’_ he commanded. _‘There’s nothing in the woods, nothing but stories to scare the children,’_ the hobbit chastised himself as he took his first tentative steps. He had never seen a wolf in the woods, had never heard them from his window; all he had was the bothersome words of his cousin Lobelia. 

“Bother,” Bilbo muttered under his breath, forcing himself to walk faster. There were no wolves, just his cousin trying to get a rise out of him, just like when they were small. He wouldn’t let her succeed. 

He was so wrapped up in his own head, he didn’t see the large pair of yellow eyes watching him intently from the shadows. 

 

The wolf was hungry, it had been far too long since he had tasted sweet hobbit flesh. He drooled, watching the plump one who had wandered unwittingly into his realm. He was a good size, perfect for supper. The wolf licked his lips again, fantasizing about fat thighs and breasts, succulent skin and tender morsels. 

He supposed they had heard about him. Fewer and fewer hobbits ventured into the woods alone, they grouped up, making in nearly impossible for him to hunt. He would not let this one get away.

The beast tread softly on its velvet paws, making no noise as he trailed the hobbit, his nostrils flaring at the delicious scent. He watched intently, his plan slowly piecing together as the hobbit stopped abruptly at the fork in the road. 

The skin-changer took his chance and transformed, taking the form of a waifish man, with russet hair and a wolfish glint in his yellow eyes. He stepped out of the shadows and towards the hobbit with purpose in his stride.

 

Bilbo was staring intently at the signs that marked the fork in the road when he heard someone coming up behind him. The hobbit whirled around to find a scruffy man, as tall as the Big Folk Bilbo had seen, standing a couple paces behind him, eyeing him up and down. 

“H-hello?” Bilbo stuttered, his heart racing. 

“Hello,” the man crooned, stepping just a bit closer. The hobbit could almost smell him, earthy and feral. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, it’s just that I don’t see many people out this deep in the forest.”

“You didn’t frighten me, just startled, that’s all,” the hobbit reassured the man. He seemed nice enough, if a bit shabbily dressed. 

“Where are you going?” the man asked politely, gesturing towards the loaded basket in Bilbo’s arms. 

“My grandmother is sick, I’m going to visit her. She lives in the largest smial on the other side of the wood,” the hobbit explained. “I was just trying to figure out the best way to get there.” 

“That’s a right shame, that is,” the tall man replied, shaking his head in sympathy. “You know what always brightens a sick room?” he added quickly. “Flowers! I’d wager your grandmother would enjoy some flowers!” 

Bilbo nodded, smiling. Why hadn’t he thought of what? Grandmother Took loved flowers, always had her home brimming with the brightest blooms whenever she could. Surely a bouquet would raise her spirits. 

“Well, my boy, you happen to be in luck. There’s a rather excellent patch of wildflowers if you take the left road,” the man cried, pointing down the left path. It was dappled with sunlight that had broken through the thick forest canopy. It looked rather pleasant, truth be told. “It’s a bit longer, but not by much.” 

“Why thank you, sir! Thank you!” Bilbo exclaimed eagerly, hurrying down the road towards the flowers. He was so caught up in the excitement that he forgot to ask the man his name, and by the time he turned around, the gentleman was gone. 

Not paying it much mind, Bilbo continued on his way towards the patch of flowers. When he finally found it, it was just as magnificent as the man had described. There was corn cockle, golden tickseed, sunflowers and his gran’s favorite, red poppies. The hobbit put his basket down and began his task, inspecting each flower to select the perfect bloom. 

While Bilbo was busy with his flowers, the skin-changer put his still-forming plan into motion. He dashed down the shorter path, smug that his simple lie had fooled the hobbit. 

The wolf made it to the other side of the woods quickly, knowing the paths like the back of his hand. Even with the hobbit’s vague description he could easily see which smial he had meant. There was one that simply dwarfed all the others, taking one giant hillock all to itself. The creature changed again, reverting to his human form as he approached the door. 

The wolf knocked briskly three times on the thick wooden door and waited. He could hear shuffling inside the smial. 

“Yes?” a nasally voice answered, the voice of someone who had spent several days sick in bed. It was hoarse, with a stiffly finish, confirming what the little hobbit had told him. 

“It’s me, Gran,” the wolf cried in a falsetto, mimicking the hobbit’s voice. “I have a basket of goodies and some flowers for you.” 

There was some more rustling inside, and the door opened slowly. Just inside the door, was a small hobbit woman with stark white hair. Her frail body was wrapped in a thick, knitted blanket and she was squinting as if she had forgotten her glasses. The wolf grinned as he pushed his way inside. The woman shrieked, trying to force the door closed on the creature, but the wolf’s strength far outstripped hers. 

He flung the door open, sending the hobbit crashing to the tiled floor. She screamed loudly, attempting to scramble away from the wolf’s clawed hands. He grabbed her and held her fast, laughing at her feeble attempts to evade him. 

“You, I think, I’ll save for later,” he grinned down at her. “I find anticipation tenderizes tough meat.” 

Her eyes widened in terror and the woman tried to scream , but the skin-changer’s quick hand stopped the cry dead in her throat as he clamped it over her mouth. He shut the door quickly and grabbed the struggling woman to him, propelling her towards the linen closet. 

Using the towels he found within, the wolf gagged Grandmother Took and tied her arms and legs securely together. 

“Now, now, dearie, I think I’m going to take a nap and wait for your grandson... How do you like that?”

The old woman glared back at him, eyebrows furrowed. She struggled again as he stuffed her unceremoniously into the closet and locked the door. 

The wolf cackled and wiped his hands, congratulating himself on his cleverness. With the old woman safe and secure for later, all he had to do was lie in wait for the fool hobbit to make an appearance. He sauntered into the grandmother’s bedroom and, putting on her worn red robe and night cap, lay down on her bed. Relishing in the still warm sheets, the skin-changer snuggled down and waited for his next meal to come to him. 

What the smug wolf didn’t know was that the disruption he had made had attracted the attention of a dwarven woodsman in a clearing not far from the smial. Thorin had been resting when he heard the screaming. He jumped up, grabbing his axe and running towards the shrieks. 

By the time he reached the edge of the forest, the commotion he heard had stopped. He looked around frantically, trying to ascertain where it had come from, but there were no signs. None of the locals were out of their smials yet, most of the hobbits preferring a nap after their second breakfast. 

Thorin turned back to the woods, intending to go back to his work, but he just couldn't shake the awful feeling of dread growing steadily in his gut. Something was wrong, he just didn't know where. 

The woodsman crept back into the forest, hiding himself in the brush. He wasn't taking any chances now, there could be lives at stake. Thorin sat down to wait, his axe by his side, but for what or when it would happen, he didn't know, but he would be there. 

 

Bilbo looked down at his bouquet with pride, admiring the colors and contrasts of the flowers he had picked. The hobbit had made sure to incorporate as many different blooms as possible. He was quite pleased of the effect.

Tucking the bouquet into his basket with the other treats, he continued down the path with thoughts of wolves no longer on his mind. This side of the forest was beautiful, lush with fall colors, leaves just starting their natural progression from green to the radiant oranges and reds of fall. He breathed deeply again, inhaling their scent merrily as he walked. 

The gentleman had been wrong in his assessment of the length of this path. It was quite a bit longer than the other path, and by the time Bilbo arrived at the edge of the wood, he was huffing and red in the face. He was very grateful that his grandmother's house wasn't far. 

The hobbits on this edge of the forest were just stirring from their post-second breakfast naps, slowly starting to come out of their smials.

Grandmother Took's smial was set apart from the rest, in a clearing closer to the edge of the woods than any other. His gran's garden was impeccably kept and Bilbo inspected some of her tomatoes before knocking sharply on the door. 

“Gran, it's me!” he called, inching closer to the door, listening. 

“Come in,” cried a voice from within. It almost didn't sound like his grandmother, but the hobbit chalked it up to her being sick. He himself sounded like a wizened old man when he had the flu. 

Bilbo pushed open the door quickly and stepped into the smial. Normally he loved coming to visit her for the smell alone, a mixture of flowers, good cooking and home. But today something was off. There was a familiar earthy, feral scent he couldn't place.

“I'm in bed, Bilbo,” his gran called from the bedroom. The sound sent shivers up his spine and made the hair on his feet stand on end. Carefully, the hobbit went to the bedroom, holding his breath in anticipation. 

He peeked in over the doorframe and released the breath. There was his gran, lying in the bed, bundled up to her eyes in blankets. He almost laughed at his own stupidity and stepped into the room. The hobbit arranged the flowers he had picked in a vase and placed the basket gently next to it on the table at her bedside. He pulled the chair from her desk and placed it next to the bed before leaning over to kiss his gran on the forehead. 

Surprisingly the woman pulled away from him, burrowing farther under the thick comforter. 

“I'm sick, dear, I don't want you to catch it!” she mumbled. 

Bilbo still couldn't get over the drastic change in her voice. “What a deep voice you have, Gran!” 

His gran laughed, a harsh sound that grated on his nerves and set his hairs to standing again. 

“All the better to greet you with, my dear,” she replied, her eyes twinkling up at him from just above the blanket. 

“What big eyes you have, Gran,” he said plainly, staring. Her eyes had always been the most lovely shade of hazel, just like Bilbo's own. Today, they were a murky, muddy brown.

“All the better to see you with, my dear,” she answered, her hand snaking out from under the blankets to grasp his own. They were ice-cold and much, much larger than he remembered. 

“Goodness, what large hands you have!” the hobbit stated, trying in vain to pull his hands back from her. Gone were the dark liverspots that dotted his gran's hand, gone was the soft skin, punctuated with a thousand tiny wrinkles, instead replaced with strong, calloused hands whose fingernails were dirtied with what Bilbo hoped wasn't blood. 

“The better to hold you with, my dear!” She tightened her grip on the struggling hobbit, pulling him closer to her. As he struggled, the blanket slipped, baring the rest of the person who was pretending to be his grandmother. It was the man from the forest! The hobbit gasped, his heart fluttering erratically in his chest. All Bilbo could see in his panicked state was the glint of the light off the creature's large white teeth, teeth that he was certain had been normal back in the forest. 

“Why, W-w-what b-big teeth you h-h-have,” he squeaked. 

All pretenses dropped, the creature sprang forward at Bilbo.

“All the better to eat you with, my dear,” the wolf growled, leaping from the bed and knocking over the chair on which the hobbit had been sitting. 

Wrenching his arm from the wolf's grip, Bilbo shrieked, scrambling across the room. He grabbed anything he could lay hands on, a lamp, books, candles, and began throwing them at the wolf.

The creature laughed, advancing on the hobbit and barely flinching as the items hit him. He had the hobbit cornered against the window. 

Bilbo soon ran out of ammunition, trapped against the wide, circular window. His eyes flicked back and forth searching for something to defend himself with. All there was was the chair he had knocked over trying to escape the wolf. Keeping his eyes on the creature, Bilbo picked it up and brandished the chair like a lion-tamer, causing the wolf to roar in laughter. 

“Well-met, Master Baggins,” he drawled, taunting the hobbit. “For all your bravado, I can see you are shaking. No one is going to save you!” 

He stepped forward, knocking the chair from Bilbo's shaking hands. The hobbit cowered, feeling the wolf's warm, putrid breath on him. He curled up, covering his eyes with his hands as he waited for the end.

But the end never came, at least for him. From behind his hands, he heard a crash as someone burst in, through the smial door. Heavy footsteps pounded across the floor, and he heard the wolf shriek. Bilbo went to take his hands down, but was stopped by a shout. 

“Keep your eyes covered,” the deep voice boomed. “This isn't going to be pretty.” 

The hobbit then heard several sickening thuds, and the wolf screamed again. The creature stopped shrieking abruptly, and then there was a loud thump as the skin-changer hit the floor. Bilbo peaked around his fingers, just in time to see the back of a burly lumberjack covering what was left of the wolf with a blanket. 

Bilbo dropped his hands to say thank you, but was struck dumb as the woodsman turned around and met his eyes. 

They were the clearest blue Bilbo had ever seen and his strong face was ringed with a dark brown beard and hair shot through with silver. 

“Uh,” he started shakily, his face blushing a florid red. “T-th-thank you, I-I-I-” 

His stuttered thank-you was cut off by a loud banging coming from the linen closet. 

Bilbo and the lumberjack walked into the hallway and opened the door. Inside was Grandmother Took, trussed and bound. 

The hobbit gave a cry of surprise and knelt to release his gran from her bonds. She threw herself into his arms, knocking him over onto the ground.

“Oh Bilbo, I thought you were dead,” she sobbed into his shoulder. 

“I'm fine, Gran,” he laughed, helping the old woman to her feet. “Thanks to...” Bilbo looked enquiringly at the woodsman. “ I never caught your name, sir.” 

“Thorin Oakenshield, at your service,” the lumberjack replied, making a formally stiff bow. 

“I'll make tea,” Grandmother Took announced, shuffling slowly towards the kitchen, despite Bilbo's protests.

“Gran, you were just tied up in the closet, I don't think tea-”

“Tea fixes everything, my boy,” she answered over her shoulder. Bilbo could hear her putting the kettle on. “And it'll help you get to know the handsome woodsman!” 

Bilbo turned red again, blushing as Thorin began to laugh. 

“Would you like to stay for tea?” the hobbit asked, looking up into the woodsman's blue eyes. 

“Would you like to stay forever?” yelled Grandmother Took from the kitchen, peeking from the doorway. 

“Gran!” 

Thorin smiled. “I think I'd like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my Beta, Beng ily! <3


End file.
